


i can't be in charge of titles oh no i'm sorry

by carefulren, taylor_tut



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: We're collaborating!! In this fic, Jaskier and Geralt are traveling together, and Jaskier gets sick. They stop for medicine, but when Geralt makes it seem like he might not take Jaskier along with him if he's not better before he has to start on the road again, Jaskier decides to lie and force himself to keep up. It will be Soft(TM) because we are Soft(TM).
Comments: 96
Kudos: 717
Collections: FF





	1. Chapter 1

There are few things in the world, Geralt believes, that can break his focus, and he hadn’t known until he’d met Jaskier that irritation was one of them. 

Jaskier likes to sleep late, though Geralt rarely lets him. Geralt rises with the sun, often before it, and when he is ready to start traveling, he doesn’t see a point in waiting around for Jaskier to be ready, too, because Jaskier is just a ride-along. Because of this, every morning begins in much the same way: Geralt wakes Jaskier, who moans and gripes about having JUST fallen asleep and wanting to stay that way. Geralt tells him that if he’s not ready by the time their supplies are loaded onto Roach’s back, he’s leaving him behind. Jaskier never actually moves, though, until Geralt finishes cooking breakfast, and even then, it’s only to lay claim to a bowl of whatever he’d cooked before Geralt finishes it all. With some food in his stomach and the sun fully risen, Jaskier is always in a much better mood, and Geralt tells himself that the only reason he lets the bard tag along is that it would be more trouble to try to convince him to leave than it is simply to allow him to stay. 

This morning, Jaskier is particularly hard to wake, possibly because he was up half the night tossing and turning, kicking his blankets off and pulling them back on over and over. Geralt calls his name, rolls his eyes when it doesn’t get a response, and calls again. When he’s faced with silence again, he tosses his empty waterskin at Jaskier’s head, which startles him into sitting up with a jolt. 

“What the hell was that about?” Jaskier snaps, more heated than Geralt had anticipated. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and catches his breath from the scare, which turns into a fit of coughing. 

“Water,” Geralt demands. “We need more before we set off again.”

“Why don’t you get it?” 

Geralt nods to the small fire which is slowly but surely cooking the strips of rabbit for their breakfast. Jaskier sighs and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders with a little shiver. 

“I’m still tired,” Jaskier objects, as if that’s any different from any other morning. “And cold.”

“You’ll survive,” Geralt shuts him down. Jaskier shoots him a glare which is only lukewarm, as usual, but instead of being dulled by its usual undertone of fondness, this time, he just seems to lack the energy for real heat. 

“If I don’t, that’s on your conscience,” he warns. Geralt nods as if to accept the threat in any real capacity and watches Jaskier stand up slowly and stretch with a wince before kicking the waterskin up into his hand and sauntering away. 

In truth, Geralt wouldn’t blame Jaskier if he couldn’t keep up. His pace was demanding even with his Witcher constitution, so he didn’t care to imagine what it might be like for a human bard. 

Maybe Jaskier could teach him to slow down, but more likely, Geralt would push him to his limits until he pushed him away.

Geralt watches the flames lick at their meager meal, turning the pink edges of the meat dark and listening to the occasional crackle of the fire as the fat rendering from the rabbit makes it roar. 

No matter how far Jaskier goes, Geralt can almost always hear his footsteps. They’re slow and clumsy with grogginess and sleep inertia, but steadily retreating. The river isn’t far from where they had set up camp and Jaskier takes his sweet time getting there, filling the pouch, and hiking back. 

By the time he does return, the rabbit is cooked through and the sticks upon which Geralt has skewered the meat are cool enough to handle, so he offers one to Jaskier, who pales and shakes his head. 

“You can have both,” he declines. Geralt doesn’t object. 

“Not hungry?” he asks, and Jaskier shrugs. 

“I’ll have something later,” Jaskier supplies, but he sounds unsure himself. “I don’t think my stomach has quite woken up yet. I feel,” he trails off with an odd, floppy wave of his hand, “off.” 

Geralt recognizes that he should press that, that Jaskier had only said anything about it so Geralt would ask. His pride, for now, is louder, and one skipped meal won’t kill him. Water, he decides, is more important, anyway, and he hands over the pouch that Jaskier had tossed at his feet upon arriving back at the camp. Jaskier uncorks it and takes a tentative, measured sip, one that looks like it was designed more to appease Geralt than anything else. 

Breakfast, without Jaskier taking half a lifetime to finish a single meal for his need stop chewing and talk, is a quick and quiet affair. Jaskier is rambling, of course, telling some story about a fight he once witnessed in a tavern in which two men brawled over the same woman’s attention only to have her take both of them home with her. He’s never been naive enough to take a bard’s tale too literally, but since meeting Jaskier, he’s become even more skeptical. Anyone who could paint him as a friend and a hero was clearly not simply an expert wordsmith, but a boldfaced liar. 

He’d never admit it, but he thinks it’s rather fitting to have a companion who can talk endlessly even without a reply.

As soon as Geralt is finished eating, they begin walking. He doesn’t think he’s been on the road this early in the morning since the day he met Jaskier, and he’s missed it. It’s a peaceful time of day, the small morning hours after the nocturnal animals went to sleep and before the diurnal ones rose; no one’s time but his own. 

And Jaskier is certainly, as he’d put it, “off.”

He’s talking just as much as usual, but what gives it away is that he’s not asking questions. There are no extended hypotheticals about absurd situations they’d never encounter in a million years, no prying into his past exploits both professional and deeply personal, no asking him to request song topics because he can't think of any. His lute isn’t even in his hands, hasn’t been all morning, and Geralt has the feeling that he’s speaking because he feels he has to rather than because he feels like it. He wants to tell Jaskier that he doesn’t have expectations for constant entertainment, that it’s okay to be tired and not want to chat, that he enjoys his company enough that silence could be pleasant rather than awkward.

How he chooses to phrase it is, “you know, you don’t need to ramble on like that all the time.” 

Jaskier blinks a few times in surprise. 

“What?” 

Geralt keeps a tight grip on Roach’s reins and doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t reply, so Jaskier frowns. 

“Am I bothering you?” he asks, not self-consciously but also not angrily. Curiously. 

“Constantly,” Geralt replies as a reflex. Jaskier prickles, opening and closing his mouth like a gaping trout before shutting his jaw with a click of his teeth. 

“Well, then,” Jaskier says, “I suppose I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”

There is something foreboding in how easy it is to shut him up today. 

Finding out why would require asking. It would require asking a question to which he knows the answer already: “are you alright?” and it would require finding out definitively whether Jaskier would reply honestly, and Geralt feels that he doesn’t want to know just yet. 

“Do that,” Geralt growls with no malice. It’s getting embarrassing how often his tone is fondly annoyed. 

Jaskier doesn’t pick up his lute or start singing. He trails behind Geralt, closely at first, then at an increasing distance as the day goes on. By noon, Geralt is having to walk ahead a few hundred yards, then stop and wait up as Jaskier catches up to him. He uses the time to talk to Roach quietly, to stretch his own perpetually aching legs. The pauses are getting longer as they get more frequent. 

This time, when Jaskier reaches him, it’s after several moments of waiting and he’s noticeably winded, coughing like he’d half drowned. Geralt is softer than he used to be.

“Roach needs lunch,” he announces, steering her reins toward a nearby clearing. He takes care of her before himself, but keeps a close eye on Jaskier, who pulls his coat around himself a little tighter and sits down on a fallen tree branch. 

“Would you like a hand?” he asks, but his posture says that he hopes the answer is no. 

“No,” Geralt says. He fishes around in Roach’s saddlebag until he finds a small muslin cloth bag of nuts and dried fruits. He tosses them to Jaskier, but he doesn’t catch it, and instead, it bounces off his chest and hits the ground by his feet. He makes no move to pick it up.

“Eat something,” Geralt commands. 

“I’m still not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.” Jaskier picks up the cloth but doesn’t open it. “I will leave you on the ground for the wolves if you faint.” 

While he knows Jaskier can see through that hollow threat, he is pleased to see that it works. Jaskier pours a small number of nuts and berries into the palm of his hand before giving the cloth back. Even of just that miniscule amount, Jaskier doesn’t finish his lunch, shoving the remainder in the bag once he’s a little more than halfway through. 

“How long are we stopping for?” Jaskier asks. Geralt shrugs. 

“Roach will decide.” Jaskier nods, then sinks down against the tree branch so his back is flat on the forest floor and his head is propped against the wood. 

“Wake me when she’s ready,” he disclaims. 

“You’re sleeping?” 

“I’m just having a little nap,” Jaskier defends. “There’s no need to worry. As soon as she’s ready, I’ll be ready to go.” 

He’s not confident that Jaskier falls asleep all the way. He’s moving around a lot, just as restless as he’d been the night before, and the coughing seems like it gets worse when he lays down. Whether he sleeps or not, he’s awake when Geralt calls out his name to ask if he’s ready. 

When Jaskier stands, however—that’s when Geralt knows for sure something is wrong. Jaskier gets quickly to his feet from the ground and his face goes ashy and white, one hand flying up to his temple. Geralt offers his arm to keep him steady, but Jaskier doesn’t even appear to see it, blinking long and fluttering blinks as he stares past his arm at nothing behind them. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, shoving him a bit roughly against the branch. 

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” Jaskier promises. “Just… ev’rything’s spinning.” Before he can go totally slack, Geralt threads his arm behind Jaskier’s back and sits him on the ground rather than the tree branch, where he seems to get his bearings. 

“Better?” he asks when Jaskier’s complexion starts to return to normal. Jaskier nods, but it’s transparently a lie. 

“I think you were right about breakfast,” Jaskier chuckles, a strained and tired tone to his voice. Geralt doesn’t think that is the issue, but it’s certainly not helping matters, so he finds the food again and shoves the waterskin back into Jaskier’s shaking hands, not letting go of it completely until he’s taken a long drink. 

“Sorry about that,” Jaskier apologizes. “I only need a moment.” 

Geralt takes a long moment just to look at him. Jaskier is pale, sure, and flushed, but predominantly he is confused. Geralt wants to ask, “are you feeling alright?” but, “what's wrong with you today?” comes out instead. 

Jaskier immediately adverts his eyes from Geralt’s gaze. “It's just a chill,” he brushes off the concern like dust from an old book, but Geralt isn't easy to fool. 

“No,” he argues, “it's not.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “A chill,” he caves, “and a headache, then.” Geralt's gaze doesn't lighten, so he adds, “Maybe a little soreness. From walking so far.” 

Geralt frowns. “A fever,” he asserts more than guesses, and Jaskier shivers a bit when he shrugs. 

He doesn't even have to mention the cough. 

Immediately, he sets to work rearranging the bags on Roach’s back to give Jaskier a place to sit, then helps him up to it. He doesn't let his face show his discomfort at the heat he finds radiating from Jaskier’s back. He'd clearly underestimated just how ill Jaskier had to be in order to be quiet for even a moment. 

“There's a town not far from here,” Geralt says. “I'm sure they'll have a healer.” 

Jaskier scoffs, but it catches in his chest as a choked cough. “I don't need all that,” he denies. “A day's rest and a cup of tea, and I'll be right as rain.” 

“We don't have a day to waste,” Geralt reminds him. The way Jaskier’s face falls makes him realize he's said something wrong, but he can't take it back, now. 

“Well, then,” Jaskier says with a forced smile. How many times had he seen that smile in the past few days? “I suppose we'd better get going.”

Geralt can do nothing but keep an eye on him trying to stay stable on Roach’s back as they head towards town.


	2. Chapter 2

“Funny. A Witcher seeking out a healer. Never did I think I would see the day.” 

Geralt’s eyes follow the salesman’s lips, each puffy purse, the uncomfortable snark that clings to each word, and he’s slow to drag his eyes up until he’s meeting humored green eyes with his narrowed, amber ones. 

“Is there a healer in this town, or not?” he growls, tone colored more so in an aggravated exhaustion then anger. He’s spent the better half of the day moving from seller to seller in search of a healer, a mage, even someone who has the slightest ounce of medical knowledge, and all he’s gotten in return are scoffs, fearful stares, and colorfully harsh words tossed toward his kind. 

The salesman raises his arms wide, stretching left and right across the greenery littering his small, wooden booth, and Geralt cocks a single brow, unimpressed at the meager selection. 

“Well, they call me the Medicine Man.” 

“I strongly doubt that,” Geralt mutters, a quiet challenge, and the salesman drops his arms to his sides, huffing out an exaggerated sigh. 

“Fine, Witcher. If you don’t want my help...” He makes to turn away, a hyperbolic act of disinterest toward making a sell, and Geralt picks up on the gig with a groaning sigh, one that carries deep from within his throat. He brings one hand to his head, pressing his palm hard against his forehead as if to stave off a pending headache with touch alone. 

“Wait.” He manages out, voice quiet, contradicting, and the salesman turns toward him with a flashy smile that oozes arrogant pride, one that Geralt wishes he could reach over and rip off with his bare hands. 

The salesman tilts his head, eyes blinking quickly, waiting, and Geralt grits his teeth, jaw clenching tightly. “I’ll look at your products.” 

The cocky, side-long glance the salesman shoots him rubs at Geralt’s every, burning nerve, but he swallows down the itching desire to act and draws his attention, instead, to the vials, vines, and leaves littering the table. 

He brushes his callused fingers over smooth, unfamiliar green and red leaves, across prickly vines, stopping on a small vile that’s filled half-full with ground, brown herbs. The prices tagged to each are the highest he’s seen in a while, and he spares a glance to see the salesman smiling at him, both brows raised. 

“What is all of this?” Geralt questions, bringing a sharp gaze back toward the products. He lifts a vial to his eyes, tipping it left and right to see golden yellow specs mixing with slender green leaves still attached to a small stem. 

“Herbs plucked locally,” the salesman starts, gesturing toward the large, wooded forest framing the small town. “Some mixed with spices known to detoxify the body.” 

The grandeur of the man’s tone is forced, and Geralt sets the small, glass vial down, a deep frown tugging at his lips. He’s by no means an expert of medicine, and he’s unfortunately not very familiar with the greenery littering this neck of the woods; however, he’s been raised to read a scam the same as reading words in a book, and he crosses his arms loosely, not a physical show of defense but rather a hint of clear annoyance. 

“Your medicine,” he starts, dragging out the word slowly, “looks fake. Cheap.” 

The salesman, to his faint surprise, appears unfazed by his harsh claims, only shrugging one shoulder. 

“Perceive it as you will, Witcher, but you’re clearly snooping around town in search of medicine for a reason.” Geralt keeps his eyes steadily trained to the man. “My guess,” he continues, “is a valued companion in need of medical attention. Someone you care deeply for, perhaps?” 

Though his eyes remain clear, unfazed, Geralt’s muscles tense rigidly with each word until he’s uncrossing his arms a little too sharply and snagging an overpriced vial, fingers curling around the cool glass tightly. “This one,” he grunts, reaching into his pocket for a cloth bag weighted with coins. He tosses the small satchel to the wooden counter, and the salesman unties it and counts the coins, smile only growing. 

“Mix the contents into hot water,” he offers, and Geralt only gives a curt nod in reply. “Make it into a warm tea. You’ll see, Witcher, it will work wonders.” 

Geralt strongly doubts that will be the case at all, yet he’s wasted enough time hounding the villagers, and Jaskier’s still laid up at the inn, so he nods once more before he turns on his heel and starts back toward the inn. 

The sharp glares filled hot with hatred burn holes into his back as he walks down the dirt path toward the inn. He feels sorely unwelcome, so much that he can sense an ounce of danger like a buzz at his fingertips. The quicker he and Jaskier can leave this small village the better. 

When he returns, the innkeeper is reluctant to offer him a small basin of hot water when he asks, as politely as he can manage after the day he’s had, but he slides a few coins across the wooden counter, a silent bribe that she takes with a sharp frown but brightened eyes. He offers his thanks when she returns minutes later with a basin filled to the brim with steaming water, but when she wordlessly adds in a wooden mug and spoon, he tilts his head slightly, a small frown playing at his lips. 

“We can hear your companion from down here,” the woman explains, voice as tired as her drawn features. “Sounds like he’s coughing up a lung at times. Hurry and get him out of here before he spreads this plague across our town, Witcher.” 

A twinge of warm anger flicks across Geralt’s vision, pulling down his neck to wrap around his slowed heart, but he eases it away with a low sigh, only nodding toward the innkeeper and accepting the supplies. 

He’s careful when he climbs the stairs, floorboards creaking loudly under his weight, yet he makes to be as light on his feet as possible when he enters their room, cautious to not disturb Jaskier. Though, upon entering, he can see that he needn’t worry about that. 

Jaskier’s in bed, yet his sleep his vividly fitful. Though closed, his eyes are pressing almost wildly behind pale lids, and he’s grunting slightly with each jerk of his head. His hands are squeezing the rough blankets hard enough to have his knuckles colored a frightening white, and he’s slick with sweat, his loose shirt clinging to his skin. 

Geralt spends a rare, silent moment just watching Jaskier, staring hard at his ill-stricken features, and he wonders, just for a breath of a moment, if the outcome would be different had he pursued a kinder approach toward Jaskier’s clearly declining health sooner. 

He doesn’t chase the thought further, instead moving his attention toward the basin and the vial weighing in his pocket. He moves toward a small table, setting everything down as quiet as he can manage, and he pulls the vial out, popping the lid off and bringing it to his nose. It smells of rosemary, a common herb, and something a little sour, a spice he’s unfamiliar with. He’s reluctant, yet he dumps the contents into the steaming water, watching the rosemary flutter slowly across the water as the flecks of spice almost glisten and swirl atop it. He’s careful when he stirs the water, hand steady, bringing the spoon deep and slow around the bowl until he’s satisfied that the water’s taken to the mixture. 

He ladles a few spoonfuls into the mug, water sloshing gently, and he turns on his heel, sucking in a sharp, yet quiet breath when he spots Jaskier sitting up with a frown. 

His hair is jostled, some sections jutting away from his head while his bangs cling to his sweat-soaked forehead, and he looks frighteningly pale, as if the small acts of waking and rising drained him of what little energy he’s managed to store from slumber. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls out, wincing at the crack in his voice that brings a prickly burn to his throat. His eyes struggle to focus on the mug in Geralt’s hand, his vision dotted with gray specks, and he brings one hand to his head, massaging his too-warm temple. “What’s that?” he asks around a few coughs. 

“Medicine,” Geralt says, annoyed at his inability to keep his hesitance from his tone. “It will help heal the fever.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widen a fraction, and the pure relief and trust that swells against the glassy blue tugs at Geralt’s heart uncomfortably, enough that he’s shoving the mug into Jaskier’s outstretched hand with a grunt, turning to lean against the wall as Jaskier takes a quick sip. 

The heat’s nice against his throat, but he can’t help the slight twist of disgust that pulls at his face when the sour notes hit his tongue. “It’s awful,” he mutters, more so to himself, yet Geralt’s loud sigh is enough to force a shiver down his spine, whether from the fever or something else, he’s unsure. 

“Drink it,” Geralt grunts. ‘I’m worried about you’ is what he wants to say, what he should say, what his lips and tongues are almost burning to say, but, instead, he narrows his eyes, stern, ordering. “I won’t take you along if you’re ill.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s face completely falls at his words, a defeated frightened look that’s very unbecoming of the bard, and Jaskier holds his gaze, conflict pulling at his face, until he’s tilting his head back and tipping the cup with his movements, lips brushing against the edge of the mug as he swallows the remaining liquid in one, long gulp.

Though a little warmer from the hot drink, Jaskier feels the same, if anything, a little more tired from the gripping fear of being left behind. It’s a pressing thought that’s always clinging to the back of his mind, always threatening to bleed into a new melody when he strums absently at his lute, and always ripping through his dreams. 

Resolve hits him, pushing back the fear with stubborn determination that has him swinging his legs over the bed and hopping to his feet. His lungs tremble with a burning need to cough, and his vision grays at the edges, threatening to bring an unwanted wave of darkness, yet he plasters a smile to his lips and breathes out a shaking exhale as if expelling this clutching illness from his pained lungs. 

Geralt frowns at the forced smile, one that’s now all-too familiar, yet he keeps himself planted against the wall, muscles tense, ready to act should Jaskier faint, if his pallor is anything to go by. 

“Let’s get going then.” Jaskier moves about the room, slipping on his jacket and shoes, biting back coughs that push at his lungs, and he can feel Geralt’s sharp gaze burning a hole in his back. “Ready?” He questions, already starting toward the door, doing his best to ooze an air of confidence, and Geralt’s frown becomes a semi-permanent fixture across his lips as he pushes away from the wall. 

“Jaskier--” 

“--we’ve no time to waste,” Jaskier interrupts, already pulling the door open, and Geralt can only wordlessly follow him, conflicted, concerned, as the two head down the steps and out of the inn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love you guys a lot!


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier is out of breath by the time he reaches the door of the inn. The heavy tightness of his lungs hasn’t eased a bit, but he can’t clear it, now, not with Geralt so close behind him. Instead, he pushes forward towards Roach, who is docked by the stables, where he knows he can kneel beside her and catch his breath while acting like he’s checking her horseshoes before they get back on the road. 

“Ah, ah,” the innkeeper calls after him, “stop right there. Just where do you think you’re going?” 

Jaskier gapes for a moment, his brain still feeling too sluggish from the fever to respond. 

“Is there a problem?” Geralt asks, stepping ever so slightly between Jaskier and the woman’s murderous glare. 

“‘Is there a problem,’” she turns to her husband, a much younger man than herself, sitting in a chair, nodding silently. “He wants to know if there’s a problem! Can you believe this brute!” 

“What do we owe you?” Geralt asks. Jaskier can hear his patience waning and leans what he hopes is casually on the wall behind him. “I’ve paid for the room.”

“Aye, for the room,” she agrees curtly, “but what am I meant to do, sell that room another night to the next mother and child to wander in here? Perhaps a wee elderly couple can share that bed and catch his plague? I’ve heard coughs like that before, and they spread through a village in a week. I’ll have to burn the blankets and douse the bed in so much vinegar it’ll be impossible to sell for three days.”

Geralt grits his teeth in frustration. “And we’re meant to pay for your superstitions?” he asks, and she nods, probably registering the sarcasm in the statement but not caring. 

“Unless you’d like to spend a few nights in the town stocks,” she threatens. “My son is a knight; all it’ll take is one word from me and I can have you both arrested. 

Jaskier doesn’t think the logic quite tracks, but it’s probably easier to just appease her than to find out, and apparently, Geralt agrees.

“We have no more coin,” Geralt says, reaching into his satchel and showing her his near-empty coin purse. They’ve barely got enough to cover a bag of grain for Roach, and Jaskier remembers them having much more before they’d stopped. “Between your room price and the medicine for his ailment, we’re bled dry.” 

She shakes her head as if she can change that fact just by disagreeing with it. 

“No, no,” she tuts, “you’re not gettin’ off that easy. New blankets will not come out of my pocket, I can assure you that!” She turns her fiery gaze on Jaskier, who looks nervously to Geralt, who shrugs. She’s got the upper hand and all three of them know it. “You,” she demands, “you can sing. I’ve heard of you, the bard that follows a Witcher like he’s his puppy.”

“Hey,” Jaskier argues, watching from the corner of his eye as Geralt bites down what might have been a smile, if he were someone else. 

“You’ll draw a crowd, performin’ at the tavern. If enough out-of-towners stop by, I won’t charge ye anything. And if not, well, you can give me whatever you make in tips and call it even. Sound like a deal?”

Geralt sighs. “He’s ill,” he points out. 

“Not so ill that you weren’t about to take him back on the road.” 

He looks almost… remorseful, and Jaskier has never seen that face on him before, so he’s not sure what will come of it. He’s scared that Geralt will think better of taking him along so soon, will decide to make good on his promise and leave him behind, after all. 

He’s not ready to let go. 

“I’d love to do a show,” Jaskier forces what he hopes doesn’t communicate as a desperate amount of cheer into his acceptance. “And the coin I’ll make will cover the cost of your room three times over, as an apology for the inconvenience I caused you.”

“Jaskier—”

The woman jumped once, clapping in excitement. “Oh, good!” She reached out and pinched one of Jaskier’s cheeks hard. “You’re just as precious as the legends tell, you know that, little bard?”

Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt’s amused ones, and he shrugs as if to say, “this may as well happen.” 

“You’ll need a change of clothes,” the innkeeper says, tugging at Jaskier’s dirty blazer with distaste. “I’ve got just the thing—my daughter is about your size.”

At that, Geralt actually snorts, and Jaskier is so caught off guard by it that he can’t even bring himself to argue. She gives Geralt the key to the room and tells him to dispose of the sheets—it’s better that he, with his Witcher constitution and the fact that he’s already been exposed, deals with them rather than her or one of the young ladies who work for her—and guides Jaskier to a room in the back. He sits on a chest of drawers while she fishes around for something that might fit, trying to force his vision to stop spinning and convincing himself he could ignore the headache because it wasn’t so bad. 

“This should do nicely,” the woman says softly, handing Jaskier a pink, warm, wool blouse which almost looks like it could be a blazer if one didn’t look too closely, and a pair of matching wool trousers. It’s an outfit that’s too warm for the season, and it makes Jaskier realize he’s shivering still. The medicine hadn’t done anything at all—in fact, he’s beginning to think that it might have made him feel worse. 

He must be imagining that. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “You’re very kind.”

“My name is Maeve,” she says. “If you need anything, just holler. I know how I like things and I know how to make foolish men listen to me, but I’m not heartless. I know you’ve been ill, and you still look like death. What you really need is a few days’ rest. If you need me to put your… companion in his place, I’m happy to.” 

For a moment, Jaskier desperately wants to confide in her about how poorly he still feels, wants to lean into her touch when she reaches out a hand to his forehead and let her tell Geralt off for pushing ahead. 

Instead, he laughs. “No need, ma’am,” he lies. “I’m feeling much better, and if I need Geralt to know something, I can tell him myself.” 

A look of concern crosses her face, looking wrong in her deeply-etched smile lines, and Jaskier is immediately glad he didn’t burden her with the truth. 

“If you say so,” she says, “but the offer stands.” She turns to leave. “You should have a bath.” Jaskier hesitates. 

“I, uh, don’t think I can pay—”

“Oh, nonsense,” she dismisses. “You must be clean for your performance tonight, and the warm water will help you breathe a little better.”

Jaskier thanks her and lets her prepare hot water for a bath, where, when he finally sinks into it and feels the heat relax his aching muscles and temporarily chase the fever-chill from his bones for the first time in days. The pounding headache eases a bit with each lungful of steam he inhaled. Finally alone, he lets himself cough, attempting to chase away the deep rumbling feeling in his chest but only succeeding in moving it around. He coughs until he sees black spots, until he’s worried that he might actually pass out in the bath and drown in barely a bucketful of water, but he eventually manages to get it under control not a second too soon, because as he’s catching his breath, he hears Geralt’s footsteps coming from down the hall. He’d know them anywhere, heavy and sure. 

Geralt throws open the door and gives Jaskier an inquisitive look. 

“Feeling alright?” he asks. It’s a test, Jaskier decides: if he’s honest and says no, that he’s still feeling run-down and feverish and weaker than a kitten, Geralt will decide that life on the road is too much for him to handle and he’ll leave him in the caring hands of the innkeeper until he’s well enough to leave and go back home. He wouldn’t care that Jaskier doesn’t want to, nor that he has no such place. 

“Just cleaning up before my show tonight,” Jaskier says, hoping that he’s succeeded in keeping the breathlessness from his tone. 

“Hmm,” Geralt sighs. He doesn’t look convinced, so Jaskier scrubs himself a bit with the washcloth he was provided and rinses his hair. He’d hoped that he might be able to spend a little longer in the bath, but Geralt seems suspicious, and if he doesn’t get out now, he might have to come up with a reason why he’s taking such an unusually long soak. Jaskier isn’t normally one for lengthy baths: he gets bored, feels too hot, doesn’t like the feeling of waterlogged hands and feet. 

He stands to leave the bath and his vision goes dark. For a moment, he tries to force himself through it, gripping the side of the tub so he doesn’t slip and climbing over the side to reach for the towel Maeve gave to him. 

The next thing he knows, he’s lying on the floor with the towel laid over his hips to protect what little dignity which hadn’t died when he’d fainted nude. His headache is now twice as bad as before from the pain of smacking into the edge of the tub on his way down. Geralt is kneeling beside him and tapping his cheek. He hears his own name called a few times in what sounds like concern, and although he’d love to keep up this impromptu nap, he decides to open his eyes. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, “you should have asked for help.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, because he can’t think of anything better to say. 

Geralt’s hand rests on his forehead. “You’re hot.” 

Jaskier shoves his hand away and sits up, fighting the wooziness that is trying to warn him to stay lying down. 

“Yes, I washed my face in the bath,” he defends. “I just got up a bit too fast.” 

Geralt, though reluctantly, appears to believe that. “You’ve not been drinking enough water,” he points out. “Nor have you eaten today.” 

Jaskier nods, needing Geralt to stick with that theory. 

“We’ll go out for dinner after I get dressed.”

Geralt shakes his head, setting the clothes, without so much as a taunt about being small enough to fit into a teenaged girl’s outfit, in his lap. 

“I’ll get us something from the tavern kitchen,” Geralt says, “and I’ll bring it back to the room.” 

That plan sounds good to Jaskier. He’s not sure he’d be able to walk as far as a tavern right now, anyway. 

He falls asleep in the time it takes Geralt to get dinner, and the sound of the door slamming open wakes him from his nap. It wasn’t a comfortable sleep, either—he’s sweated enough that he almost wants another bath, and though the shaking chills from earlier have subsided, at least for the moment, he’s still feeling shaky and weak, and now dizzy, on top of it all. 

Geralt, more merciful than Jaskier had anticipated he’d be, sets a small mug of broth in front of Jaskier. It smells like onions and carrots, no heavy meats or potatoes that might make his already-testy stomach turn on him. 

“This was the lightest thing the kitchen had,” Geralt says, setting the cup in Jaskier’s hands so he can sip it without moving from the bed, then sitting down to his own meal of pork, bread, and cheese. “If you think you can stomach a roll—”

“No,” Jaskier cuts him off too eagerly, then smiles to ward off concern, “thank you. Better to start with this, for now. Herbal medicines tend to make me a bit queasy.” 

Geralt nods. Though his eyes are turned toward his own meal, Jaskier still feels watched, so he doesn’t let his posture show the way his back is aching or try to get away with massaging the headache from his throbbing temples. They eat quietly and awkwardly. 

“You should rest before you perform.” 

God, that sounds amazing, but Jaskier is wary. He chuckles. “I’ve been sleeping all day,” he reminds Geralt, who, blessedly, shakes his head. 

“That sleep was… not restful,” he says, a bit of concern creeping into his expression. “You were fevered and hurting.”

‘Still am,’ Jaskier thinks, but he acts like Geralt is twisting his arm about it. 

“Alright, alright,” he caves like it’s some great ask rather than the only thing that might get him through the evening without collapsing. “If it will make you feel better.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything and Jaskier is asleep within moments. 

This time, he wakes to his lute being tossed into his lap. He’s feeling disoriented and slow, a bit like he’s floating, and the surprise of the moment lowers his guard enough to let a few rough, deep coughs slip before he remembers to contain them. 

“This is a very delicate instrument, Geralt!” he whines. “You can’t just throw it around like it’s a sack of apples!” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s time to get up,” he says. “Your audience awaits.” 

A groan escapes Jaskier’s throat and he has to put a dramatic spin on it at the end to ensure it doesn’t sound as miserable as he feels. 

There’s no way that medicine did a damned thing for him, and he’s convinced he feels worse now than he did before. 

Geralt frowns, even despite the theatrics which he’d figured would dull his interest. “Still tired?” he asks, and Jaskier shakes his head. 

“Just comfortable,” he lies. He’s exhausted to his bones and standing makes him nauseous. 

“Well, get dressed,” Geralt demands, tossing the borrowed clothes at his face. “The innkeeper is waiting for you downstairs.”

Jaskier is honestly, though he’d never admit this, surprised by the turnout. The tavern is next to full, which isn’t surprising, but what is is the fact that many of these people appear to be here for his singing rather than in spite of it. 

Geralt takes a seat quietly in the corner and Jaskier is glad to have a few moments away from him to try to clear his throat before he has to perform. That turns into another coughing fit, one he has a much harder time getting under control. It takes so long, in fact, that someone actually brings him a glass of water, which he accepts gratefully when he can breathe again. 

“Thank you,” he rasps, blushing at the sound of his own voice. He’s sung with worse—he can sing on a next-to-lost voice—but it’s not what he would prefer in front of such a large crowd, Geralt especially, and with so much riding on making the money for the room. 

“Thank you all for showing up,” he greets the small pocket of people gathered around him, hoping that they will hush the room so he doesn’t have to raise his voice. He flirts a bit with an elderly lady in the front—he’s not feeling up to flirting in a way that might lead to anything, anyway, and he always gets more tips when he chooses a sweet old woman to flatter rather than someone his own age. 

He chooses songs that are heavier on the lute than vocals, and when he has to cough, he does it against tightly closed lips, which makes his chest hurt and his head spin. 

After two songs, his throat is burning. A young woman sets a coin in front of him instead of into the tip mug and tells him to buy a hot cider with it, which he does. It doesn’t help.

After four, he’s no longer able to even make laps around the table for dramatic effect, losing the energy to encourage audience participation because it takes too much mental energy to keep up with the beat that way. 

Seven songs in, he loses feeling in his fingers for a full minute and he has to rely on muscle memory for the tune. 

He makes it through almost nine songs before his strumming trails off and his singing turns into breathless mutterings of what he thinks might be the lyrics. This one had been a request, so several people are singing along, but he can’t hear them anymore. All the sounds are fading together into one horrible, loud cacophony that he can’t help but recoil away from in pain. 

Everything is cold and hot at the same time and he doesn’t realize he’s falling forward until Geralt’s hand on his shoulders stops him from taking a bite of the floor. 

“The show,” Geralt announces, “is done for the night.” 

Jaskier shakes his head even though he knows it’s resting against Geralt’s chest and he’s not sure he has the energy to pull away. 

“I just need a moment,” he tries, a last-ditch effort. Geralt doesn’t buy it. 

“You’re done for the night,” he says, his tone unreadably harsh. 

“But the debt—”

“We have more than enough coin to pay for the damn blankets,” he snaps. “You are done.” 

Jaskier has a foreboding meaning about what that means, but all the same, he hands his lute over to Geralt, who wears the strap which fits over Jaskier’s entire chest over one massive shoulder. When he finally gets his feet beneath him, everything goes dark, and the last thing he registers before unconsciousness is the feeling of hitting his head against the table he’d been sitting on and the low, angry-worried shout of his name. 


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt’s counting time in his head, seconds pulling to minutes and minutes fading to hours. His mind is trained on the steady, rhythmic counting, yet his eyes are focused on Jaskier, on the sporadic rise and fall of the bard’s chest, on the way his eyes press wildly against closed lids, on the sweat beading at his furrowed brow.

It’s been two hours and fifty-seven minutes since he whisked Jaskier away from the tavern, the blood that pooled from Jaskier’s head now a dry, dark red splatter against his gray tunic. Two hours and fifty-seven minutes since he’s last seen Jaskier’s glassy, blue eyes open, since he shared a wordless conversation with Maeve, her sharp, knowing eyes arguing with his muted plea. She caved when she brushed gentle fingers to Jaskier’s burning brow, and he’s been waiting with Jaskier ever since.

“Wake him every three hours,” Maeve had told him when she brought in a basin of cold water, cloths, bandages, and a few mugs of fresh water, “to make sure he’s still himself if he wakes,” and Geralt’s hung to that “if” ever since, his mind counting time in ifs.

At the three hour mark, he leans forward in his chair, cupping a cautious hand to Jaskier’s boiling cheek. “Jaskier,” he grumbles, hoping his cool touch and low voice would be enough, but Jaskier only jerks away from his touch with a hiss, and Geralt moves his hand to Jaskier’s shoulder, shaking it a few times. “Jaskier, open your eyes.” He’s not doing well hiding the concern that’s been a growing pit of pressure pushing against his stomach, and the shaking becomes a little more frantic until Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he shoots up into a sitting position, curling in on himself against deep, wet coughs.

Jaskier’s lungs are filled with rocks that rumble with each, thick cough, and he grabs at his shirt right above his chest with one hand and blindly reaches to the side with his other, for whom he’s not sure, but he clings to large, rough hand that finds his like a lifeline.

“Breathe, Jaskier.” 

The voice beside him sounds distant, fuzzy, and he drags a welling gaze, blinking through the glassy tears, to see Geralt’s rough, drawn face watching him so closely that he would shrink back if his mind could fully wrap around the idea. “Geralt,” he gasps around ripping coughs, and the hand around his tightens hard enough to bruise, and it’s the last thing he feels aside from the restricting burn in his chest as he falls back against the pillow.

For a moment, Geralt forgets that he, too, should breathe, his breath stuck in a tight swell in his lungs as he watches tensely until Jaskier’s chest finally stutters into a weak rise, an indication of life that has him sighing deeply and falling back against the chair.

His hand slips from Jaskier’s, and he brings it to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing at the pressure from a stress headache that’s threatening to bloom to his temples. He sits like this for a moment, breathing deeply in and out through the fear thumping slowly alongside his heart, allowing himself a breath of a moment to selfishly indulge in his own, gripping panic before he keeps count again.

He’s quiet as he smooths a damp cloth across Jaskier’s forehead, careful around the bandage painted red from his wound, and he doesn’t look up when the door creeks open. He presses two fingers just above Jaskier’s exposed collar bone, feeling the weak, rapid heartbeat flutter against the pads of his fingers with a frown.

“I heard him coughing. Did he wake?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, “twelve minutes ago.” He brings his hand back to the cloth across Jaskier’s forehead, smoothing it down gently before leaning back against the chair as Maeve steps into the room and shines a lantern to Jaskier. 

“Was he lucid?” She frowns at Jaskier’s pale, sunken pallor, a look of deterioration she’s seen before, and she cocks her head to the side, listening to the deep wheeze that comes from each, ragged breath. 

“He didn’t say much.” Geralt’s mind slows back to Jaskier’s eyes, to how wild and confused they were. 

“What did he say?” 

“My name,” Geralt mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for Maeve to hear, but she does, and her fingers tighten around the handle of the lantern. She clicks her tongue, head shaking as she turns back to the door. 

“His death will be on your hands, Witcher.” 

He doesn’t flinch when she slams the door behind her, but his shoulders sink a little, and he groans through a deep sigh. The chair beneath him creeks when he shifts a little, crossing his arms over his chest, and he keeps his lips pressed firmly closed as he counts the ticking ifs in his head until, without meaning to, he nods off, chin pressed to his chest.

He comes to what feels like only seconds later to a loud thunk that vibrates against his feet. His eyes shoot open, and he reaches behind him for his sword, briefly forgetting where he is until his eyes flick to see Jaskier crawling toward his lute that’s propped up against the wall by the door.

“Jaskier, what the hell are you doing?” He spits out sharply, moving to his feet and crossing the room to Jaskier in three, long strides.

“The coin,” Jaskier wheezes. The floor is rough against his palms, and he’s freezing, his arms shivering hard enough to have him almost falling face-first to the floor a few times. “I have to...” The rumble in his lungs cuts him off, and he shifts ungracefully into a sitting position, moving one fist to his mouth as he coughs hard into it. It hurts, and all he can feel is the burn in his chest and the ice in his bones. 

He coughs until his vision swims, until his head, though throbbing mercilessly, goes light, almost airy, and he finds himself fighting consciousness as he slumps against the large, warm body at his side. He brings one shaking hand up to Geralt’s shirt, weakly tugging at it. “I have to perform,” he rasps out, trembling hard against Geralt’s chest. “We need the coin--”

“--you’ve already earned your keep,” Geralt says, hand slipping under Jaskier’s sweat-soaked bangs to feel the heat of a relentless fever. 

“I did?” Jaskier lifts his head to stare at his lute across the room, to try and remember his fingers dancing along the strings, but his head is suddenly too heavy against his neck, and he drops it back against Geralt’s shoulder. “Was I good?” 

Perfect, Geralt thinks. Courageous, stunning, stupid, but Jaskier faints against his chest before he can verbally answer, losing a one-sided battle against a raging fever. He scoops Jaskier up with concerning ease, the bard feeling far too light in his arms, and he carefully places him back onto the bed, working the sheets and blankets back up to his chin when Maeve comes bursting in.

“What happened?” 

“He was trying to leave to go perform. He thought he hadn’t already.” 

Maeve sucks in a sharp breath and leans heavily against the door frame. “He’s getting worse, whether it be from the fever or the injuries to his head. He’ll die by--”

“--he won’t die!” Geralt doesn’t mean to shout, doesn’t mean to give in to the mixed concoction of worry and anger swirling in his chest, but he does, and his voice booms across the room, echoing against the walls, and Maeve tenses in the doorway. He doesn’t apologize, but he breathes out a shaking breath. “He won’t die,” he repeats, and Maeve mutters under her breath, something Geralt doesn’t care to focus on, before she turns and leaves the room. 

His movements aren’t as soft and gentle now as he works cool, damp cloths down Jaskier’s neck, across his chest, over his forehead, repeatedly for an hour, hoping to push away the fever with his hands alone. There’s a pang of desperation feeding his movements, and he works until they become etched into his muscle memory.

Another hour passes, and Jaskier stirs under his touch with a small shiver when he smooths a fresh, cold cloth down his chest. His brows pull into a furrow, and his eyes take a long time to finally open, still glassy under the soft glow of the bedside lantern, but for the first time in hours, a little clearer.

“Ger--” is all he manages out before his lungs burst against tight heat, and Geralt eases him into a sitting position as the coughing shakes his entire body. The coughs grate against his dry, sore throat, pierce at his head, and expel what little energy he’s been clinging to since opening his eyes moments ago. He wills his lungs to settle because he’s covered in exhausted pain, and he pulls his focus to the steady hand on his back until he’s able to suck in a relatively decent breath of stale, sick air. 

He’s back at the inn, and it’s still dark outside. His mind is fuzzy, desperate to fall back into a fitful sleep, but he struggles against it, slowly craning his neck until his eyes find Geralt’s narrow ones.

“Jaskier?” There’s hesitance in Geralt’s tone, hope right on the edge, waiting, and Jaskier frowns at it, tilting his head slightly at the pure exhaustion pulling at Geralt’s rough features. 

“You look like you haven’t had a wink of sleep in years,” Jaskier mutters, wincing and bringing one hand to his throat at the croak of each word. Geralt frowns at this, because of you, he thinks, but he swallows thickly instead, bringing his hand from Jaskier’s back to the back of his neck. 

“Do you know where you are? What happened?” 

“The inn,” Jaskier says, turning to cough harshly into the crook of his arm, over and over, his back and ribs aching from the force. “I sang, and...” He remembers feeling far too hot yet far too cold, remembers growing heavy, and then it’s as if someone painted over his memories in a dark black. “I don’t remember after that.” 

“You fainted,” Geralt starts, slipping off the bed and pacing the small length of the room right in front of the bed, mindful of the empty tub in the middle of the room. “You fainted because you were too ill to perform, and you hit your head.”

Jaskier’s hand unconsciously moves to the bandage around his head, and he prods lightly at his, hissing sharply at the pain it brings. “We needed the coin.” He frowns when Geralt stops in his tracks but keeps his eyes trained to the wooden floorboards under his feet. “Geralt?”

The words that flood his mind are harsh, desperate, angered, concerned, relieved, but he fights each off with an incredibly deep sigh. “Rest,” he says instead, finally dragging his gaze up to Jaskier. “I won’t wake you every three hours now that we know you’re no longer at risk of a jumbled head.”

“Geralt--”

“--Rest,” Geralt orders, and Jaskier’s face falls, but he sinks heavily back against the pillows, nodding off almost instantly, the fear of abandonment looming in his burning dreams. 

Geralt drops back into the chair, the legs creaking loudly against his weight, and he leans forward, dropping his elbows atop his knees and his head into his palms.

He alternates from the chair to the floor, his back propped up against the side of the bed, for three days, only urging Jaskier to eat and drink when he wakes, and on the dawn of the third day, just as the sun slowly makes its way up a pink sky, Jaskier’s fever breaks, leaving him soaked in sick sweat.

The cough’s still there, still strong, often leaving Jaskier breathless and gripping at the nearest wall or piece of furniture, but by the the fifth day, he’s growing antsy, the uncertainty of Geralt’s quiet tension pressing against his throbbing ribs, and Geralt’s growing aggravated with Maeve’s hovering.

He leaves the morning of the fifth day to make a few purchases, and he’s not so nice when he dumps new bedding and a coin purse filled to the brim on the counter before taking the stairs two at a time to pack.

Jaskier’s sucking down water when he walks in, trying to remedy the dehydration that’s built up over the last few days, and he swallows wrong when Geralt slams the door open, choking on the water, which in turn, morphs into a rough coughing fit that has him dropping to the side of the bed. The coughs, though still wet, are productive, working to clear his lungs of his illness, and when he’s able to catch his breath, he brings his face up, blinking slowly when Geralt’s hand finds his forehead.

“Geralt, I’m fine.”

True to his word, Jaskier’s forehead is cool to the touch, but Geralt’s still concerned about his lungs, the coughing, and he’s not phased when Jaskier swats lightly at his hand, only letting it drop to the side with a frown.

Jaskier dissects Geralt’s frown, from the firm press of his lips, to the deep, downward curve, and he opens and closes his mouth, searching for the right words, the right plea, but then Geralt’s dropping a new, large, navy coat on his lap.

“You’ll wear this,” Geralt says, “at night, when the temperature drops.” He grabs the lute, swinging it easily over one shoulder. “And you will not touch this until you no longer sound as if you swallowed a dying frog.” 

With his fingers clutched around the coat, Jaskier hops to his feet, bringing the coat to his mouth and coughing hard enough to go dizzy. He doesn’t fall despite his teetering to the left, though, because Geralt’s hands find his shoulders.

“And you’ll ride Roach until you stop doing that.” 

Jaskier falls back against the bed, stunned, knees suddenly weak. “You’re not... I can still travel with you?”

I wouldn’t have it any other way, Geralt thinks, shoulders slumping, eyes searching Jaskier’s wide, eager, and slightly closed off ones. “Of course,” he opts for instead, forgoing a grunt of a “yes” for something that carries a little more weight, and it’s worth it when Jaskier’s eyes glow brightly, and he smiles wide despite the few coughs slipping past his lips.

They pack in comfortable silence, and Jaskier bids Maeve farewell with a tight hug. She’s hesitant to let go, but she does, glaring tired daggers toward Geralt as they leave the inn, and Jaskier’s thankful to suck in clean, outdoor air for the first time in a while. He coughs with the deep breath, but it’s still worth it.

He only needs a little help climbing onto Roach’s back, but once he’s settled to Geralt’s standards, they start out of the town, and it’s only when they’re covered by towering trees and bushes that Geralt finally clears his throat roughly.

“I am sorry, Jaskier.” 

“For what?” 

“Making you think I’d abandon you,” Geralt grunts out, sighing. “I’ll,” he pauses, frowning, “I’ll try do to better to communicate with you, but I need you to do the same without fear that I’ll drop you off at the next town and be on my way.” 

Jaskier can feel the weight of each, struggling word, and he nods, meeting Geralt’s eyes, and if Geralt smiles at him, it’s small, only a hint of an upward curve, but Jaskier catches it, meeting it with a wide smile of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end!
> 
> Taylor and I want to thank everyone who's been reading and following our collab, and we want to thank everyone for all of the feedback we've gotten! We love all of you!
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it!
> 
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